


All The Things Unwritten

by two_drama_nerds_in_a_boat



Category: Lumberjanes
Genre: Angst, Bittersweet, Character Study, End Of Summer Arc, Gen, The Forest Is Magic Horrifying And Vaguely Evil
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-21
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-17 17:34:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29596311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/two_drama_nerds_in_a_boat/pseuds/two_drama_nerds_in_a_boat
Summary: Jen grasps the tree tightly and begs to it, “Please.“And for the very first time, the Forest chooses to listen.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 6





	All The Things Unwritten

Jen grasps the tree tightly and begs to it, “ _Please_.“

And for the very first time, the Forest chooses to listen.

* * *

It is the last day of camp and the Grey eats the campers, the counselors, the cabins and their friends. The Grey devours the trees, the insects, the sky and the sun. And Jen screams and screams and screams because the Forest _let this happen._ It has never stayed passive in anything, ever. It had a voice in this, and it chose to let them die.

Jen borrows the roc and it flies her to the epicenter, the place where everything started, a dried up waterfall and an empty cave and a spot where a Sentinel sat, once, and Jen notices that this is the place where the Grey does not touch and Jen knows there is something more to this and she remembers the face Jo made when she was devoured by the Grey, the way April fought against it, how Mal cried out for her mother and Molly begged for forgiveness and how Ripley just looked at Jen and said “I’m sorry” before she was rendered still as stone and Mr. Sparkles fell from her lifeless hands. And Jen jumps of the roc and tells it “Thank you” as she wipes tears from her eyes, and she steps on the still-warm earth and reaches for the tree that hangs over the waterfall and she says, “I know you can hear me. Now listen.”

* * *

There is a story Jen read when she was in elementary school, when she joined her first bookclub in Ms. Clement’s class, sat down on stained carpet from decades before her, surrounded by children she did not know. It was a book about three siblings and a magical boy and a magical forest, and the other kids were delighted by it, but Jen sat reading terrified.

“He’s taken them from their homes,” she said, seven-years-old and confused. “And he’s promised them that they will be happier, here, on this island. But they can’t stay young forever like him. What happens when they grow up?”

And the other children in bookclub all looked at her funny, and then thought and then pretended they had not heard her and went back to laughing and talking and dreaming. And the teacher wrote Jen’s mother a note home saying maybe Jen shouldn’t do bookclub anymore. And Jen set the novel aside and looked in the Fair Folk and mysterious disappearances and urban legends, because if this sort of thing was real at all, she needed to know how to fight against it.

* * *

Jen _pushes_ all her meager strength against the bark, pretends she cannot feel it as it cuts her hands with razor teeth, moss turned bitter and biting. Jen tells herself that it’s just a tree and this is just a forest and that forests become paper and paper becomes books and books become stories, and maybe if she lies to herself long enough she’ll find a way to defeat this grand entity, by reducing it to letters and ink.

* * *

There is a story Jen heard when she first came to camp, about a mysterious woman of the woods who actually _knows_ things. And at first Jen thinks it’s Rosie, and then she thinks it’s the Bearwoman, and then she meets Abigail and Jen knows who the story was about, and she realizes that sometimes knowing everything is more painful, and sure, they say that ignorance is bliss, but Jen realizes that ignorance is death, too, and she’ll have to figure out a balance.

Jen watches a counselor go missing and no one realize what’s wrong. Jen watches children scream and run and cry as they scramble to hold on to what little life they have left, a monster’s jaw snapping at their heels, and Jen thinks _None of them have died, yet, we’re going to be okay,_ and Jen thinks, _But they don’t know Vanessa’s gone, yet, either, and what if Forest magic works both ways?_ and Jen thinks _The Woolpit Cabin is one camper short of the usual five,_ and then Jen stops thinking because she’s starting to realize that sometimes answers are worse than questions, and maybe Rosie’s like this for a reason, and maybe Abigail was right.

* * *

Jen tells the Forest, “Take me back,” and she’s _screaming_ again and she cannot stop, the rage and hurt and anguish build up in her as the fireflies emerge for nighttime and she watches the Grey extinguish every last one, and Jen says, “Let me fix this, you’ve had your fun. You’ve killed them for sport but you left me for _something_ and now you’re going to let me start again and I _will_ change it, you’re going to _let me change it_.” And for the first time the Forest is quiet all around her, and the bark does not bite her hands, anymore, but holds them steady, a friend. And the ground beneath Jen’s feet is soft and green and Jen feels the world change. The wind howls all around her and her green uniform skirt whips with it, and the trees creak and moan and the sun returns to warm her face and she thinks she hears a voice, greasy and sly, say to her “Good game, little one.”

* * *

There is a story Jen discovered, when she was a child still determined to never become a changeling, ignorant to the fact that she would beg for something similar in the future. The story said that most unknown forces can be reasoned with, but there is always a price. Jen read large books checked out of the local library, tucked under the covers of her bed with an astronaut reading light. One book declared the cost was memory. One book swore by names. Another said it was innocence, another love, another gold and jewels. And Jen closed each book and thought _There is truth in all stories,_ and then went to bed and tried not to think, and sometimes she dreamt of a forest in the future that tried to swallow her whole, but she never thought anything of it. 

* * *

Jen opens her eyes and she stands outside of camp, waiting, right under the grand wooden sign. She’s wearing jeans and a t-shirt for a space camp she wanted to visit but never attended, and Rosie approaches her, warm and grinning, and says “Ah, you must be the new counselor! Jeraldine, right?”

And Jen nods, and her eyes still hurt from crying and her hands are still clenched at her sides but she says, “Yes,” and smiles at Rosie, and when the camp director isn’t looking she turns to the Forest and says, “Thank you” and then Jen steps through the threshold and it’s the first day of camp, again, just as she remembers it, and she knows she’s going to do it all over again but if it means another chance, if it means the possibility of getting it _right_ she refuses to let it go to waste.

* * *

There is a story Jen knows, about grief and joy and loss and hope, but the trouble is she cannot remember if she made it up or if the Forest’s magic has warped her memory and stolen pieces and told her it never truly existed. Jen stands in the Roanoke cabin, bunks empty and ready for occupants, and she says, “At what cost?” and the Forest replies, “There is always a price, little one. The less you know, the better” and then the Forest takes another memory away and tucks it in its pocket, and Jen nods and prepares to meet the Roanokes again for the first time.


End file.
